The Good of the People
by storytellers
Summary: As an adjutant guard in Toulon Javert gets dragged into the investigation of a two-year-old crime.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I am not Victor Hugo and I don't charge people for reading this story.

**Author's Note:** I really have a lot to say which is why I left the real author's note for the end. Scroll down and read it now if you like. For now I just feel obliged to say that this is indeed centred on Javert but you won't see him until next chapter. Have a little patience.

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**Chapter one**

_**In which a mother and a son have an argument**_

In the house of the Chevalier family in Toulon a heated argument greeted the first rays of sunlight when they crept across the ornamented carpet and glinted off the silverware on the deserted breakfast table.

"Albert, what sort of foolishness is this? I cannot allow you to do it!"

"You allowed me to go to the interview, mother," 21-year-old Albert Chevalier replied with a sigh, slipping his boots on.

"But I never thought they would take you! Look at you!"

Albert did indeed spare a glance at his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging in the hallway. Neatly trimmed light blonde curls, pale rosy cheeks and slim build that hinted at a dancer's grace but definitely not at physical power. There was, of course, the thin long scar next to his ear. Oddly enough, it was his little sister Maude that had given him that scar. Albert was rather fond of it, although he rarely told the truth of how he had gotten it. It had the delightful advantage of spoiling his perfect looks and he was sure it had saved him a lot of teasing as a boy. When you had a scar, you could count on a little respect. But apart from that, his mother was right – he did not have the looks of a prison guard. Although he would never admit it to anyone, he himself was surprised that he had managed to secure the position. Even if he had indeed used a sort of delicate bribery. The bagne of Toulon was in the process of changing management. The old commandant was leaving in the hopes of securing a better job in Paris. Albert had discreetly hinted at using his father's connections to help that happen. Combined with unashamed flattery, it had done the trick. After all, the commandant was not risking much. He would not be here to witness the consequences of hiring someone unqualified. His successor would have to deal with that.

Unfortunately, so would Albert. He could pretend all he liked but he was rather nervous. He was not entirely useless in a fight but some of his charges would be hardened criminals three times his size. As much as he disliked the idea, he would have to count on the infamous Chevalier luck to keep him out of fights.

"Have a little faith in me, I know what I'm doing," he muttered, while buttoning his uniform.

_Officially_, he said it to his mother. But he was staring at his own reflection the whole time, daring it to contradict him.

"Oh, this is all your father's fault!" Adorlee Chevalier lamented, noticing that her son was barely big enough to fit the garments he was wearing. "He's made you think that if you treat life as if it's some sort of fairytale quest, things will turn out all right in the end."

"You leave father out of it," Albert admonished her mildly. "It's hardly fair to blame a man who is sick and cannot defend himself. Anyway, I am doing this for all of us. So father can get better."

"Oh, you silly child…"

She trailed off, suddenly sounding older and heartbroken in stark contrast with her still almost girlish face. She sat back down on her chair, which she had left in the middle of their verbal battle, and continued in a much gentler voice.

"Albert, how do you think working in the bagne is going to help your father? We don't need money and even if we did, a guard's salary would hardly provide that. Are you restless? Do you need something to distract you from your father's condition? You could help Jacques with his business."

"I think Jacques is managing fine on his own, thank you, mother. And it is not that I am restless. I told you, this is not just about me. It is about all of us. Things have always been too easy for us. And people who are no worse but less fortunate suffer greatly for no good reason. Perhaps this is some kind of retribution. Father lives here in this beautiful house with his loving family and enough money to buy half of Toulon and he delivers verdicts and sentences to men and women who have hardly ever had anything."

"Your father is one of the most merciful judges I have ever seen, Albert. It is hardly his fault that people are poor. And we give to charity all the time."

"That's not it. That's also easy. What is giving money when you have it?"

"So you want to see what people who are less fortunate do to survive? That's noble, if a bit unnecessary, but why a prison guard? There has to be more to this sudden whim of yours. Otherwise I have to assume you have gone insane."

"Very well then. It's the Moreau case."

Adorlee's mouth opened in surprise.

"The Moraeu case? You still remember that? That was two years ago. It hardly matters anymore."

"We are talking about a man's life, mother. How can it not matter?"

"The man is a murderer."

"My father always wondered…"

"Your father always wonders about all of his cases. He cares about people and that is good but it doesn't make him responsible for their misfortunes or for their actions."

"Well… this time he wondered more than usual. He thought he may have sentenced an innocent man to jail. I want to see this man and see if he really deserves what he got. And not just him. You know father wants me to follow in his footsteps. I want to see what his verdicts do to people. It's only natural to want to know, don't you think? Ah, there! All set up. Wish me luck and off I go."

"Wait! Maude wanted to see you off."

"No need to wake her up, I'm nearly late anyway. I will see you all tonight. Goodbye, mother."

"Maybe God really is punishing us for something," Adorlee muttered when he disappeared out the door. "He gave me an ill husband and an idiot of a son. Still, I pray to Him to keep that idiot of a son out of trouble…"

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**Real ****Author's Note: Just to make a few things clear.**

1. This story takes place in 1805. Valjean is in Toulon and he has already tried to escape twice. Javert is 25 and he has been working as an adjutant guard for two years. (*edited after a reviewer made me realize that I was an idiot)

2. Yes, there will be original characters, sorry. But they are indeed actual characters and not self-inserts or the likes. I know fan fiction readers are not fond of them in general but do try to keep an open mind – these people are necessary to the story.

3. When I write fan fiction, I usually do it in order to step out of my literary comfort zone and perfect a certain skill. In this case it's writing crime. I've never written anything remotely criminal. On top of that, I am notoriously bad at historical writing, hence the reason my original novels are all fantasy. I will try my best to do some research but there will be inaccuracies. Please ignore them and enjoy the story if you can. I never studied French history and while I'm prepared to do research, there are limits to what lengths I will go to, considering that I tend to focus more on the characters than the setting anyway.

4. What universe is this set in? Perhaps I should have started with that. It's set in some intermediate Les Miserables universe. It mostly keeps the book in mind but I don't guarantee it will be completely book-compliant. I do love the musical but the idea that Javert is a religious fanatic for example doesn't work for me at all.

5. Speaking of which, I'd like to think that my Javert will be a bit more 3-dimesional than most of his other portrayals. I am however unable to give you the most interesting Javert in the world. The most interesting Javert in the world has been written by AmZ. If by chance you haven't done it, go read AmZ's "Between the Dog and the Wolf" NOW.

6. If by any chance someone has read the fics from my Women of the Opera challenge, they might have recognized Albert. Yes, it is essentially the same character, although obviously in a completely different universe. For some reason he kept demanding to be reused, rewritten and properly developed in this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I have not turned into Hugo since the last chapter and I'm still making no money.

**Author's Note: **Unfortunately I can't promise that all updates will be as quick as this. But since the second chapter was finished… Here's young Javert for you. He's somewhat more dramatic than I would imagine his older self to be but 25 is 25 whoever you are. Also, I find it hard to write about characters with no first names so, as far as I'm concerned, he was named after his father rather than given a gypsy name or whatever else. And Francois is as good as any.

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**Chapter ****two**

_**In which a young adjutant guard muses about life**_

Someone entered a small dark room without bothering to light a candle. A coat was tossed carelessly at a chair. It missed its mark and slid to the floor. Its owner didn't notice or didn't care.

Boots were kicked off with uncharacteristic absent-mindedness in two different directions. Had they any feelings, those boots would be terrified – they had never been one without the other. They were used to standing side by side, placed neatly near the bed. Not tonight though.

A body hit the mattress and a pair of eyes stared up at the ceiling.

Nothing. He felt nothing. Surely there should be something?

He absently thought of a story he had heard from an old gypsy once. In his youth the man had been attacked by a bear. He was missing a leg and his chest was covered in horrendous scars. It was evident the beast had almost succeeded in gutting him before his friends had managed to shoot it dead. He proudly told the tale to a circle of wide-eyed little faces. Javert, a child of twelve at the time, had tried to force his mind to imagine the situation. What do you feel when something so horrible and scary is happening to you? He had gathered his courage and asked. And this was the answer the man had given: nothing. Beyond a certain point you don't feel anymore. There is no pain. There is no fear. There is nothing but cold observation of what is happening. Perhaps this is nature's way of showing mercy to the prey being killed by the predator.

He sighed. Being numb may well be a good thing when you are about to die but it didn't work quite so well when you experienced it for longer than a few minutes. He knew he should be thinking about something now, making a decision. Instead, his mind was stuck, reenacting the incident.

It had happened while they were unloading prisoners from a ship. One of them, a relatively young man, had been crying and screaming the whole time. He was not a strong-looking fellow and he seemed terrified among the more bulky criminals. Just before they were about to take him off the ship, he had completely slipped into hysterics. So much that when Javert had tried to force him to walk, the man had bolted and thrown himself overboard. Whether he had really wanted to commit suicide, they would never know, but he had effectively done just that. The tide was high and the current strong and, being in chains, he hardly stood a chance. Javert's commanding officer had ordered his guards to remain where they were, sparing them the moral dilemma of whether or not to jump in the water. Most likely they would not have been able to get to the prisoner on time anyway.

But as a result, they had had to watch the last minute and a half of the man's life unfurl before their eyes. Drowning was a horrible way to die. And watching it happen was like feeling your blood slowly freeze.

For the first time in his life Javert had been close to defying an order. And not an unreasonable order either. It was more than likely that an attempt to rescue the drowning prisoner would have resulted in more loss of life. It enraged him that this reasoning did not help his state of mind.

He had foolishly thought that everything about this job would be simple. That nothing could go wrong, that his path forward was clear.

Some part of his mind gave a hysterical laugh at that.

Idiot! He should have been prepared. He should have foreseen such a scenario and braced himself for it in advance. He should have devised a plan on what to do in such a situation. _Should_ he have done something? Both logic and the law pointed otherwise.

Enough of that now. The man was dead. Nothing to be done.

He got up, lit a candle, took some cheese from a cupboard and started slicing a loaf of bread. His motions were mechanical, almost like a ritual. Despite being generally unreligious, Javert liked rituals. He dwelled in the stability and safeness of them. Whenever he felt unsure, he could just grab onto the next thing in his daily routine and the answer would eventually come naturally. He planned his life methodically, step by step, afraid that he would get it wrong.

Tonight though he cursed his meager 25 years and his young mind's inability to focus on what his hands were doing. He kept thinking what it would be like if he had chosen another profession.

For all of his devotion and eagerness to perform his duty as best he could, Francois Javert had not in fact wanted to become a prison guard. Well, he had not particularly _not_ wanted to either. It had simply been the only available choice at the time. He had been 18 years old when he had started and he had spent his whole life before that around prisons. The environment was familiar, if not exactly pleasant. And he had had to start somewhere. Many thought he had taken the job in his desire to distance himself from his convict father after whom he had the misfortune of being named. That wasn't entirely incorrect. But Javert would have much preferred to distance himself from _prisons_ as well. However, since that did not seem possible for the time being, he classified it under 'unnecessary luxuries' and resigned himself to the fact that he was and might always be connected to criminals in one way or another.

So he did his job and he did it well. He was level-headed for his age which earned him the approval of his superiors and he was fairer than some other guards which earned him… well, nothing much, really. The prisoners were quick to complain about unfairness but they weren't inclined to be grateful for the opposite. But he did what he had to do and he went to bed at night with a sense of achievement. When people sometimes commented that he was too old for his age, Javert felt proud. He wanted nothing more than to be free of the clutches of his childhood, which, although not the most horrible childhood in history, had been far from jolly.

And yet sometimes in the long hours when he had nothing in particular to occupy his mind something dark and mocking found its way there and everything seemed like a joke…

_To prevent more loss of life__._

That was what his superiors had said. Javert wondered idly if he himself considered his own death much of a loss. It was strange to think something like that but if you looked at it objectively… What did he have now, after trying so hard not to be one of the criminals he guarded? Freedom he was afraid of and false respect, that's what. People smiled to his face and whispered behind his back. He was a white man to the gypsies and a gypsy to the white men.

No. No, he could still prove it was possible to get out of the gutter. To follow the rules and be successful at the same time. Those men, those men he saw every day dragging their chains, they were responsible for their own predicament. Otherwise what sense did it all make? If you could not escape yourself, you might as well be in prison…

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

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**End Note:** Forgive the slight cliffhanger there. And I really appreciate reviews, you know :0)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Blabla not Hugo, blabla no money made.

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for your comments. This chapter is proof that I write faster when I get reviews.

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**Chapter three**

_**In which there is a disturbance**_

When the door opened, Albert had to look up, and even then all he saw was a chin. He took a step back.

The young man standing before him was uncommonly high, olive-skinned a slightly feral-looking. However, that last characteristic was strongly contradicted by his expression. His dark eyebrows were raised in polite, if mildly annoyed enquiry.

"Yes?"

"Monsieur Javert?"

A slight twitch of the lips and a curt nod.

Albert caught on the joke quickly. The man must have noticed his guard's uniform and was probably amused at being called 'Monsieur' by a colleague. Albert gave a slight mental sigh. He probably sounded like the rich boy he was. He cleared his throat and continued in a more business-like manner.

"My name is Albert Chevalier, I'm one of the new adjutant guards. They sent me to tell you there has been a disturbance and your assistance is required."

Javert frowned but nodded, muttered a quick excuse and went to fetch his coat and boots. He was out of the door in a matter of seconds and swept past Albert with barely a glance. The younger man followed determinedly. Technically, he was told he could go home after notifying Javert. But 'could' did not mean that he had to, did it?

Once they were outside, the cold wind hit them in the faces. To his credit, Albert found that he was able to keep up with the other man's wide strides relatively easy. He had always been light on his feet, even winning races against his older brother as a child.

"Does this happen often?" he asked as they made their way through the dusky streets. It was still early but it was wintertime and although night had not fully come yet, it was threatening to do so any moment.

Javert spared him a quick glance.

"Pardon?"

"Prison riots," Albert clarified. "I always hear people say that prisoners gang up on the guards a lot but they never seem to recall a particular occasion or have a good explanation of how they know, except for 'everybody knows that'. So I was wondering if it was true."

Javert's eyes rested on him a little longer this time. Albert got the distinct feeling that his companion was trying to detect fear in him. He returned his gaze with quiet challenge. Molyneux, the older guard he was assigned to, had taken pity on him and sent him on this errand instead of keeping him at the bagne to help. That was quite enough condescension for one day and he wouldn't take it from someone barely older than he was.

"Very rarely," Javert answered finally, in a tone which, Albert was happy to find, was more irritated than patronizing and even the irritation seemed to be directed at the situation rather than at him. "We are usually able to keep them under control. Who knows what set them off this time."

"It's because of that man who drowned," Albert supplied.

Javert halted and looked at him for a few seconds with a thoroughly unreadable expression.

"I see," he said. "You learned that how?"

"I was there when it started. My shift was just about to end. The new prisoners wouldn't stop talking about the incident, although the guards tried to discipline them… rather harshly a few times. That… was a mistake in my opinion."

"How so?" Javert asked, starting to walk again, faster this time.

"Well, it only served to increase the tension, for one thing," Albert replied, trying to hide his distaste for the cruel treatment he had witnessed. After all, he didn't know what kind of animal Javert was (although he was ready to place money on some sort of canine) and he didn't want to make enemies that quickly. "You don't think it was a little unwise to use force on the prisoners just when they were complaining that a guard had killed one of them?"

Javert's eyes widened and flashed dangerously.

"What?! That's a lie!"

"Well, I wouldn't know," Albert admitted with a shrug. "Oh, but that's right! You must have been there. Now that I think of it, I may have seen you briefly today. You were one of those who delivered the prisoners."

A nod.

"May I ask then, what really happened?"

Javert turned away without answering. Albert watched him for a while, before deciding not to press the issue. They continued walking in silence. To his surprise, after a minute his companion spoke again.

"He jumped."

"Pardon?"

"He jumped on his own. No one killed him."

"Oh… I'm sorry."

Silence. Albert glanced up to see a pair of very dark and very baffled eyes looking at him from under furrowed brows.

"What precisely are you sorry about?"

Albert shrugged.

"All of it, I suppose. It's a pity for the man even if he did jump himself. I wonder what could have driven him to such an act."

"My guess would be that he was insane," Javert said in a disinterested tone.

"Perhaps," Albert conceded. "I have heard prison does that to you."

"I suppose we won't find out for sure."

Javert was clearly trying to end the conversation. Albert was tempted to take pity on him but he had come here to learn things and talking was the only way he knew how to do that.

"No," he agreed. "But I also meant I was sorry for everyone who had to witness the incident. It must have been horrible, watching someone die and knowing that it's impossible to help them."

"It was not impossible," came the blatant reply. "It was inadvisable."

Albert had never seen such determined honesty. Javert's lips were pressed together in a thin line and his voice had been tight when he had spoken, as if the words were some sort of punishment.

"I see," he said.

He didn't have time for anything more because they had arrived at the prison.

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**End Note:** I find that I'm rather fond of writing young Javert. He is an interesting character to start with but when you take him back to those years, he is a lot more flexible…

And, by the way, that little review button is awfully helpful to prevent writers block.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** If Les Miserables belonged to me, I would be a dead Frenchman, which I am not. I am also not making any money.

**Author's Note:** Now this whole author's not has been replaced because I'm a idiot and should be shot. If you're anew reader you may be able to gather why in the author's note in the next chapter. That said, enjoy :)

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**Chapter four**

_**In which a sheep dog whistles**_

It was a cacophony of shouts, screams and gunshots when they entered the inside yard, although the gunshots were at least aimed at the air, as far as Albert could tell in the relative darkness. Little scenes from the riot could be seen in the light coming from inside the buildings and a few dropped lanterns. There were groups of guards beating prisoners and significantly fewer prisoners who managed to strike a guard before others arrived to help. Albert saw one in particular, a very large man, his face hidden beneath a bushy beard and strands of filthy hair, who was holding his own in one corner of the yard. He wasn't attacking. He was mostly just scattering guards like puppets when they came at him and since he didn't seem particularly keen on fighting, they weren't trying too hard either.

"Javert! Are you just going to stand there?"

The shout had come from one of the guards who was pinning a prisoner to the ground. Javert either didn't hear him or ignored him.

Albert caught sight of Molyneux standing across the yard with his weapon trained on a small group of prisoners. For a moment the older guard looked surprised to see his new assistant there. Then he shook his head in exasperation. If he had not been so busy, Albert was sure he would have come to tell him off for coming back. He ignored the reproachful stare and looked around the yard again, squinting to see better and trying to decide who to help. And the 'who' did not only include fellow guards. Some of his colleagues were definitely getting carried away in their anger. He was trying to decide if it would be completely suicidal to try and get them away from one of the prisoners who was spitting blood on the ground, when something rather strange happened.

Javert, who was still standing next to Albert, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath, suddenly started whistling. Just like that, whistling a completely nonchalant tune. Albert stared at him dumbfounded, feeling like he had entered some sort of strange dream. Then a slight reduction in the noise made him look back at the yard.

The effect was not immediate but little by little guards and prisoners alike noticed the whistling and gradually halted whatever they were doing. It was almost like that trick with the snake and the flute, although Javert lacked a flute and the snakes were quite a few. The new prisoners were slower to respond but once they noticed that everyone's attention was getting diverted from the fight, they reluctantly followed suit, stealing uncertain glances at each other. It wasn't long before all eyes in the yard were fixed on Javert. In the absolute silence, the merry little tune trailed off in a slow, shaky exhalation, although Albert was sure none other than him had heard that. A few seconds passed with people just looking at Javert, unsure what to do.

"Off we go now, gentlemen, in a civilized manner," he said finally and proceeded to get those of the prisoners who were still standing to form a line. Then he started shepherding them inside. Albert's ears caught the little tune again, but a lot quieter and somewhat absent-minded this time. It was like seeing a sheep dog who had learned to whistle at the sheep instead of bark at them. And it didn't only work on the prisoners.

It took a few seconds for the rest of the guards to wake up from the spell and start shouting half-hearted orders at no man in particular. Albert got the impression that they were only doing it because it made them feel better. The chaos slowly organized itself before his eyes.

Realizing that he had been standing there for a few minutes doing nothing, Albert moved to help carry the wounded to the hospital on one side of the yard. He was kneeling down next to a moaning guard whose leg seemed to be broken when he heard the shout.

"B-but it was him!" someone screeched in a high-pitched, slightly deranged voice. "He is the one who killed Boucher!"

Albert turned around. The words had come from one of the new prisoners and he was pointing at Javert while his comrades were looking at him as if unable to believe his stupidity. Clearly, after whatever had just happened, some of them thought that even if Javert was really a killer, that was just one more reason not to cross him.

Javert himself, stone-faced and unreadable, approached the man slowly until he was standing inches away. He had to bend down to be level with the scrawny prisoner who seemed to be suffering from nervous ticks.

"Prisoner 27492, Simon Dupuis," Javert stated calmly, glancing at his number. Albert wondered briefly if he knew all of their names. "Did you personally see me push prisoner 28405, Philip Boucher into the water today?"

The man who was being addressed considered his answer briefly, while chewing his bottom lip.

"Er… No, sir?"

"You are in no danger if you tell the truth," Javert assured him. "If you did indeed see me commit the act, charges will be pressed and the issue will be resolved in a court of law. I swear before all of these witnesses, half of them your fellow prisoners, that you will not be punished in any way by me or another guard for accusing me. I will now ask again, did you see me murder prisoner 28405, Philip Boucher today?"

"N-no, sir. I only saw you standing there and someone said… Well… I jumped to conoclushuns, sir. Sorry, sir."

The tension was so high that it made Albert slightly hysterical and he almost laughed at the prisoner's attempt to pronounce a word he was clearly not entirely familiar with. Thankfully, he managed to restrain himself. Everything looked insane enough without random, inappropriate bursts of laughter.

Javert nodded and turned to the rest of the prisoners.

"Did any of you by chance see prisoner 28405, Philip Boucher, jump overboard of his own volition?"

A number of hands were raised slowly. Albert noticed with amusement that some of them belonged to old prisoners who had not been on the ship at all but were obviously eager to get this over and done with.

"Right then," Javert said, clapping his hands. "With your permission, I will consider the matter closed. Next time you jump to conclusions, Dupois, I suggest you have some proof. While I did not cause the death of Philip Boucher…"

By this point Albert was seriously wondering why Javert insisted on repeating the prisoner's name every two sentences.

"…whoever started this ridiculousness, and everyone who let it continue, caused serious harm and perhaps even the eventual death of quite a few people today. This, unlike Philip Boucher's death, could have been easily avoided if all of you had not acted like animals."

And here I am, Albert thought, listening to a sheep dog give a lecture to a flock of sheep about being more civilized. Once again the thought almost made him laugh. Apparently, frayed nerves were all you needed in order to find prison hilarious.

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**End Note:** If what just happened seems a bit unclear, it just might become a bit clearer in the next chapter. Only might. By the way, did you spot Valjean? And question of the day: why do YOU think Javert is repeating the prisoner's name like a broken record? I'll be very interested to hear theories.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine, still no profit.

**A/N 1: ****At ****Trompe-la-Mort**** and everyone else, please read:**

*headdesk* You know what the idiotic thing is? I KNOW he's supposed to be 52 at the barricade, I REMEMBER the badge, but instead of counting 52 years back from 1832, which would have been so simple, I looked at the back of my school edition which has a timeline. Obviously, a wrong one. Either that or I'm supposed to assume that Javert lied on his badge and paraded as someone 5 years younger for reasons of vanity. LOL that would be hilarious ;P.

I KNEW there was something wrong with all this. I always thought Toulon was the beginning of his career so it made no sense for that to happen so late… Now this makes much more sense. And in this case, since 25 is not 30 (not such a big difference from 20 to 25, basically you're still a baby) and the characters would still work if I make them just a little older, I might as well actually BE book-compliant in this aspect. So the ages have been altered in previous chapters. Sorry for the whole mess with numbers, guys, I should be shot. It doesn't really affect the story that much except I'll have to make Albert two years older as well because otherwise the gap is a bit too big.

**A/N2:** Now, just an early warning – despite what it may look like, this will not be slash. Let me explain why. Ages ago when this story was still at drawing board stage it was actually planned as, quoting AmZ, 'gay melodrama'. However, that was before I had started reading Between the Dog and Wolf, which has since made it impossible for me to imagine Javert with any man other than Isaac, let alone write it well. Therefore, if any sort of romance interest is to appear in this at all, it will have to be a girl, sorry. If that happens, I promise no Sues.

Now on we go…

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**Chapter five**

_**In which **__**dots are connected**_

After everything had quieted down and the last of the wounded had been transferred to the hospital and taken care of, Javert stood alone in the empty yard, hands clasped behind his back, and stared up. The wind had dispersed the clouds that had covered the sky earlier in the evening and now it was clear. He rocked slightly on his heels and occupied his mind with connecting the bright dots above.

"Stargazing?"

Javert's head snapped in the direction of the voice. The new boy, Albert, was leaning with one hand on the entrance to the hospital. Javert had forgotten about him in the commotion but he had obviously been helping inside until now. He shrugged at the question.

"I find that it helps me organize my thoughts."

"That was rather impressive, what you did today," Albert said, walking up to him, assuming a similar position and turning his gaze upwards as well. "Was it some sort of gypsy magic?"

Javert looked at him sharply but the handsome face remained perfectly nonchalant as its owner stared innocently at the sky.

It hadn't been an insult or even teasing.

_He doesn't think he has said anything out of the ordinary_, Javert realized.

His muscles which had instinctively tensed at the word 'gypsy' relaxed a little.

"There was nothing magical about it," he answered. "The whistling distracted them because they didn't expect it. It was so out of place that they suddenly felt unsure about what was going on. Then they saw me. A man who is whistling in the middle of a big fight is either crazy or very dangerous. I have a reputation for both, depending on which rumors you like best."

Albert laughed heartily at that.

"But it was like a teacher had just walked into a classroom of misbehaving children!"

Javert smirked.

"Well, I'm known for being able to enforce discipline."

"I guessed that much. If they found it necessary to summon a particular adjutant guard from his home, that person must have been terribly useful in such situations. Is that how you usually do it?"

"No. I usually get into the fight. But even then the prisoners seem to obey me more than they do the others. Or at least when I hit them once they have the sense to stay down."

"But today you decided to whistle?"

"Today I decided to whistle."

"Any particular reason?"

"I did not feel like hurting my knuckles with some prisoner's jaw."

"You resort to fistfights during riots?"

"In a melee such as this, you resort to anything. They were really riled up today. I told you, it rarely happens. The guards carry weapons, the prisoners carry chains and that's usually enough. It's not often that they realize they outnumber us and if they attack all together they may actually cause serious harm. And they are normally afraid of the consequences."

"What are the consequences?"

"Well, we can't whip all of them, can we? So mainly smaller rations and harder work. However, they are more afraid of personal scores being settled off the record."

Albert nodded without asking for clarification. Javert guessed he could imagine what some guards did to get back at prisoners who attacked them.

"You never settle personal scores?" the younger man asked.

"No. And others don't do it where I can see them either. They know I would report them. I play by the rules. Personal revenge only leads to disarray. That's why the laws exist in the first place."

"Yes, I know. My father is a judge."

Javert squinted in speculation.

"Wait, _that_ Chevalier? You are Judge Chevalier's son?"

He hadn't really paid much attention during the quick introductions at his doorway but that could explain the boy's polished looks. Although it did not explain what the devil he was doing working as a guard in the bagne.

Albert didn't volunteer any explanation to that and simply nodded to confirm his identity.

"I hear he's fair," Javert commented.

"He is. What about your father?"

"Convict."

"Here?"

"No."

"I suppose that would have been strange."

"Why?"

"Well, wouldn't it?"

Javert shrugged. His companion decided to change the subject.

"To tell you the truth, I'm surprised someone is still supposedly supervising you."

Javert allowed himself a smirk.

"Only officially. But old Perot got hurt today so I guess I'll be on my own at least for the time being."

They were silent for a while. Then Albert looked at him sideways.

"I have a question but if I ask you I don't think you will give me a straight answer."

Javert rolled his eyes.

"My mother was a gypsy fortune-teller."

"That's interesting."

Silence. Javert cocked an eyebrow, now curious despite himself. That was usually what people wanted to know, even if they were afraid to ask. A name such as his combined with appearance such as his was bound to invite curiosity and gossip. But if this hadn't been the question, then what was it?

But Albert just looked at the stars deep in thought. Javert involuntarily glanced up to see what exactly he was looking at. Of course, there was nothing but distant dots of light. But one might wonder in what pattern the mind beneath the blond curls was connecting them.

After a while Albert's face finally lit up as if he had seen the completed picture. He looked at Javert with a small smile playing on his lips.

"I like you."

Javert rolled his eyes at this declaration.

"You hardly know me. I don't need an admirer. And an accidentally successful trick that will not work a second time is not a good reason to…"

"No, not because of the whistling trick!" Albert interrupted. "Although I admit that one will be hard to forget... Either way, I am not an admirer. Trust me, I've had enough of those to know it's irritating and doesn't make for good company. I just figured something out. The answer to my question."

"Well, I am way behind you then. Since you didn't even tell me the question."

"I kept wondering why you repeated Philip Boucher's name so many times."

Javert's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't often that someone managed to surprise him.

"Why, I wondered would he keep repeating 'Philip Boucher' all the time?" Albert continued. "But the answer is in the question, isn't it?"

"How so?" Javert asked carefully.

He was not used to his actions being dissected and analyzed in such a manner. Most people didn't pay that much attention.

"Well, I didn't ask myself 'Why did he keep repeating that dead prisoner's name?', did I? Because I knew exactly what the dead prisoner was called. Here is the thing, Javert – I accuse you of being kind. You thought he should be remembered as something more than a bad day and a lot of paperwork and you made sure that his name stuck. And you did it in such a clever way that most people didn't even notice."

"I was simply being fair," Javert said after a short pause.

"Maybe," Albert conceded. "But 'how to honor the memory of dead prisoners' is not in any rule book. That was your own rule. If that's the kind you play by, I like you. And… Damn, I am so impossibly late that my mother will have my head served for dinner. I will see you tomorrow!"

He was gone in seconds. Javert blinked after him, frowned and then smirked. Well. He didn't give his own affections quite as quickly but there was a chance that he might start liking Albert Chevalier in the future too. The boy didn't fit here at all. And, somehow, that was a good thing in this case.

* * *

**End Note: **Yes, I will get to the main story. But the scene does need some setting up. Any thoughts on this chapter?


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Les Miserables and all of its characters belong to Victor Hugo and I am making no profit by writing this piece of fanfiction.

**A/N: **Yes, I know. No, this isn't abandoned at all. But I got stuck on some technicalities and I had a lot of planning to do before I could continue. And then I normally use the summer to work on an original novel because it is co-written with another author and that period is the only chance we get to see each other face to face. Anyway, I'm back so let's see how far this particular burst of inspiration will take me. I apologize for the Javert-less chapter with even more OCs but it was necessary. At least they talk about him at the end if that's any consolation. Remember that this thing has 'crime' in the genre so if I put this long (and maybe boring to some) chapter here, it's because you need the information that is in it to figure things out later on. And now enjoy.

**Chapter six**

_**In which tragic love and murders are discussed**_

There is a place in Toulon, a small place that has gathered in only two decades a century's worth of laughter and adventure between four walls.

It would come as no surprise to anyone who knew the Chevalier family that this place was located in their house. It was a large room with big windows and a smooth wooden floor, covered by a soft carpet. There was a single piece of furniture in the room – a big chest that holds everything the Chevalier children had considered a treasure while growing up. From pebbles to paintings and poems. Well, the paintings within the chest are few but not because the children had not liked to paint. It was just that they had rarely done it on paper. Jacques, Albert and Maude Chevalier had possibly been the only children in France officially allowed to paint on the walls. Naturally, that permission only applied to the walls of this one room but it was enough.

If you stood in the center and you looked around, you were surrounded by anything and everything you could imagine from woods to clouds and from flowers to monsters. The childish scribbles began low, near the floor and got progressively better the further up your eye traveled. There were some images that looked quite recent, added by the surer hand of an adult.

This was the Play Room – a safe haven for restless young minds and hands. Emile Chevalier had given it to his children in the hopes that having such a place of their own would prevent them from tearing down the whole house. He had been right. The Play Room was sufficiently big and empty to leave enough scope for the imagination and room for any kind of game.

Now the children were quite grown-up but the room was still in use and very little had changed in it. It was currently occupied by four young people and one cat. There was a fire in the fireplace but a window was also half opened, admitting the cold evening air. The flames of the candles that were scattered around the room danced. Corbin, the Chevalier family's small black tomcat, followed them lazily with a pair of amber eyes.

Albert was lying on the carpet, resting his elbows on a pillow and frowning at some sheets of paper strewn on the floor in front of him. He was occasionally being accidentally stepped on by a girl with a blindfold on her eyes. Albert knew for a fact that it was a girl, on account of it being his own sister. However, a casual observer may have easily mistaken her for a slightly strange young boy. This was mostly due to the fact that she was wearing a pair of Albert's old pants which were too big for her and were hanging on suspenders, accompanied by one of their father's old shirts to complete the outfit. Her dark curls barely reached her shoulders, barely within the limits of what was considered acceptably short for a young woman.

It wasn't that Maude Chevalier was particularly boyish. She had inherited her mother's girlish looks and, in public, she could impersonate a proper young lady. But this was the Play Room and everything was allowed so Maude often opted to look bizarre for the sheer freedom of it.

A visibly more feminine figure sat on the windowsill. And not only more feminine but just _more_ in general. She was dressed in a faded pink dress, inexpensive and carefully mended a few times. The dress gave the impression that it was just barely containing the girl within, although not in an ugly way. She was not so much fat as simply curvy. There was not a sharp edge anywhere on her, from her small button nose to the tips of her reddish-brown curls. She had a half finished shirt in her lap that, judging by the quick movements of the needle in her hands, would quite soon turn into a finished shirt. This was Claire Manuel – daughter of a seamstress and one of Albert and Maude's oldest friends.

The last person in the room was a more recent acquaintance. His name was Leon Bonnet and the only things that indicated he was a boy were his clothes. The clothes in question were quite expensive and fashionable but the person within them was very skinny and looked as if he had next to no muscle. Albert, who had not long ago been irritated by the way his own body was built, could not help but feel relieved that at least he didn't look like that. On top of all, the poor creature presented the worst case of sensitive skin Albert had ever witnessed. It was incredibly dry, flaky and even cracked in places. At least what could be seen of it, because Leon's clothes were always buttoned up and looked as if they were meant to swallow the boy. Or at least package him well enough to be sent to Paris by post.

Still, Albert liked Leon despite his lack of manliness. He found the boy a good listener if not the best talker.

As the flame of the candle he had put on the floor next to him sputtered and died, Albert rubbed his eyes and, with an air of desperation, pushed the pile of documents to the side where Maude stepped on them in her blind journey across the room.

"I can't do this anymore," he declared. "I have read through the file six times and I can't find anything wrong with it."

"I told you this wasn't getting you anywhere," Maude said matter-of-factly, removing her blindfold and sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her brother.

"What did father see in this man that made him think he was innocent?"

"I thought that was what you went to the bagne to find out," Claire pointed out from her perch on the windowsill. "You've been there two weeks already. Why haven't you talked to Moreau yet?"

"Not that easy, _mon fraise_. He's not a small fellow, even if he is a bit short. Can you imagine how Armand Moreau would react to the son of the judge who sent him to jail approaching him for a friendly chat about the murder of Claudine's husband?"

"Well, when you put it like that… Who are these people again?"

"Armand Moreau is the man who is in Jail, Claudine is his lover and Antoine is Claudine's husband and the baker Armand killed. These are all of the people directly involved with the murder."

"No, not all of them," Maude countered. "Not if father's intuition is correct and Armand is actually innocent. Then we have at least one more person in the picture and that's the real killer."

"Unless the real killer is Claudine," Claire suggested.

Albert shook his head.

"If we assume Armand is telling the truth, she was with him when they both heard the gunshot and came downstairs to find the body."

"Why are we assuming he is telling the truth again?"

"Because we are assuming he is innocent, _mon fraise_. Otherwise the whole exercise is pointless."

Claire quickly looked down at the shirt she was finishing. The action was meant to hide the little smile that Albert's pet name for her called to her lips. He always noticed it. And, as seriously as he took his current task, his youth made it easy to get temporarily distracted by it.

It was Leon's voice which brought him back.

"But being innocent doesn't necessarily mean he is not lying. There are plenty of reasons for a man to lie even if he is not guilty. What if, for example, Claudine is the real killer but he is unwilling to reveal this because he loves her?"

Albert cocked his head to the side, considering.

"Sounds a bit like an opera libretto to me but I admit it's not completely outside of the realm of possibility. However, if this is the case, I am not so certain he would be very grateful to us for unmasking the truth."

"It does sound like an opera libretto," Leon agreed, dreamily contemplating his nails as he often did when he spoke. "But wouldn't you do it for the woman you love?"

Albert rolled his eyes.

"I suppose. But that's really not the point here. We're trying to find out whether or not Moreau is innocent, not whether or not I am romantic."

"He loves a tragic love story, our Leon," Claire teased gently.

"Is there any other kind?" Leon wondered aloud.

Albert suddenly had to fight back laughter. He knew that Leon's grandfather had practically pushed the boy into their little circle for the purpose of wooing Maude. To think that Leon's mention of tragic love could be referring to his own attempts at courtship was hilarious. Although… It had to be said that Albert's little sister seemed indeed very fond of their sickly-looking friend. Not the kind of gentleman her brother would have picked for her but, then again, love was a funny thing. He wondered what most people thought about the charmingly plump object of his own affections.

"Well, one thing is certain – we won't get anywhere until you actually find a way to question Moreau," Maude concluded after a few more moments of silence. "You already know the case file by heart and it hasn't been much help so far. You have to take some action if you are planning on continuing with this at all."

"I am," Albert assured her and rested his chin on his fist, thinking. "You know, maybe there is someone I can get to talk to him for me. And that someone would probably be a lot better at questioning anyway."

"That Javert fellow?" Maude guessed at once.

Albert nodded.

"You seem rather taken with him," his sister observed.

"Who is Javert?" Leon asked.

Albert shrugged.

"Someone I work with. He's an interesting character. His mother was a gypsy fortune-teller, his father is a convict but the man is straight as an arrow. I normally pass for naïve but even I wouldn't have believed that a prison guard could be that fair. What is more, he manages to be awfully strict and by-the-book without being boring for a single moment. In fact, he is so strange that there are at least ten different completely ridiculous rumors about him circulating around the prison. One states that he turns into a wolf during the full moon. The less imaginative ones include gypsy magic and curses. Maybe that's part of the reason why he keeps the prisoners under control so easily. I'm willing to bet at least half of them are afraid he might bewitch them."

Maude burst out laughing.

"You almost sound like you believe that yourself!"

Albert laughed too and shook his head.

"No, he's just a youth like us. Very much like the four of us, actually. A little unusual, a little insane and trying to carve himself a hole in the world that would fit him because the typical ones don't."

"Sounds like us," Maude agreed. "So you can trust him?"

Albert nodded.

"I'm fairly certain I can. But convincing him to help will be another matter entirely…"

**End note: **Is anyone at all still reading? Please give me a shout if you are :)


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